


Cycle

by roughlycut



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Hallucinations, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vomiting, disorientation, very brief mentions of Gabriel/Jack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:07:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23585857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roughlycut/pseuds/roughlycut
Summary: Most days it’s fine. He has a routine. A plan to stick to.And on the days where it’s not fine, everything falls apart.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Cycle

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago, for the Soldier 76 zine.
> 
> I've tagged it as well as I could, but do let me know if you feel a tag is missing.

Most days it’s fine. He has a routine. A plan to stick to.

Up at 6 am, feed the cat, go for a run. Take meds. Have breakfast, tend to the garden, have lunch. Nap, feed the cat, have dinner, watch tv. Take meds, go to bed. And then repeat.

He likes it like that, the easy pattern of solitude. The only people he sees regularly are the neighbours living a mile down the road, his doctor, and the family that runs the small local supermarket.

But occasionally he gets visitors, whether he wants it or not.

Gabriel always comes over unannounced. After the few first times it happened and he spiraled into a panic attack, he’s convinced Gabriel to at least send him a message first. So an hour is what he gets now, before Gabriel is standing at his doorstep.  
Jack asks how things are, with the job and the house and Gabriel avoids replying directly. He never wants to talk about it, and Jack never has anything new to tell, so they dance around each other for a few hours until one of them caves in and they end up in the bedroom.  
Jack likes it when Gabriel is around, the familiarity and the warmth of another body in his bed, but he also likes it when he leaves. It’s like he can breathe again. There’s too much history, too many things unsaid. Gabriel is never there for more than a few days, always just gone one morning. Jack wonders when he’ll see him again as he changes the sheets, washing away the sensation of lingering emotions, easily falling back into his routines.

When Ana is state side, she always comes by, but never unannounced. She lets him know at least a month in advance and makes sure to ask him if there’s anything he wants her to bring from wherever she’s at at the time. Usually there isn’t.  
When Ana shows up she bluntly tells him how he looks like shit and how he ought to go out more. Meet some people she says with a line of worry on her forehead. Jack just smiles and nods, too tired to argue how he likes it alone.  
Instead they move on to talk about Fareeha’s marriage, or lack thereof, and how Jack’s cat need a name that’s not just Cat. They drink wine until Ana gets drunk enough to reminisce about her past mistakes, and then Jack tells her she’s free to sleep on the couch. She never stays more than a day, despite his invitations to do so, and he sends her off the next morning with a long hug and a lingering kiss on his cheek.

On most days, Jack is fine and he tries to stick to the routine and the familiar patterns, but he fails sometimes, even when there’s not a naked Gabriel or a drunk Ana to distract him.

And on the days where it’s not fine, everything falls apart.

He forgets to have lunch, or he has lunch twice but forgets to feed the cat. He gets ready to go trim the rose bush in the garden, only to realise it’s January and he ought to shovel snow instead.

Jack tries not to notice when it gets like that. He pretends it’s fine, tells himself it’ll pass, that he doesn’t need to take the extra pills his doctor have prescribed him.

But it becomes clear that it’s not fine, not fine at all, when he startles awake from an unscheduled nap on his couch and he can’t even remember what day it is.

There’s an odd rumble, which he dismisses as thunder rolling in, but as it keeps going he realises it’s not. It’s a muffled kind of yelling.

He feels a cold sweat break out immediately and suddenly wishes he was not alone. If he wasn’t feeling like shit he’d laugh at his own selfmade predicaments.

It’s what one gets when he refuses to go out, to be a part of society. Adjust.

He tries to breathe normally, but his throat is tightening up, mouth dry and sticky. He can’t even remember if he had anything to drink earlier, if he had anything to eat. If he took his meds.

With much difficulty he gets on his feet, stumbling towards the kitchen. His body feels like lead, heavy and sluggish, and his stomach is churning with nausea.

The yelling hasn’t increased but it hasn’t decrease either. Jack isn’t sure if it’s a good thing or not. He tries to remember how it usually goes, what the other times has been like. But his mind is foggy and it seems too much to try and recall the last episode he had while being right in the middle of a new one.

He finally makes it to the kitchen, pushing the door open as he leans against the wall, instantly realising that the muffled yelling is a bad thing.

Blood is leaking from underneath the fridge door, seeping down onto the floor and into the carpet. There voices are louder now, still incoherent, but closer to him somehow. Soundwaves vibrating all around him, palpable and dizzying.

The blood spreads and spreads, and Jack tries to walk around it, but his legs won’t cooperate. He trips and falls, landing in the puddle, hands slipping in the mess as he tries to stay more upright.

It smells foul and he can’t help from gagging, mouth now full of saliva.

He tries to tell himself it’s not real, that he’s just lost his way from the routine. He knows there’s no rumbling and no blood and no smell, but it doesn’t work. He can’t remember if it ever does, but he has to try.

Jack removes his socks, shirt, and pants too. It’s all soaked and it smells so bad, almost sweet, like spoiled fruit.

He concludes he’s not eaten anything today, because if he had, it would surely be on it’s way back up now. He’s not really grateful for that, not really.

He thinks about his doctor, about the extra pills she prescribed for him. How she reminded him that taking those was not an admission of defeat. He wishes he trusted her to believe it was true, like he trusted her with everything else. Wish he trusted himself to believe it was true. But Jack doesn’t trust himself. Not anymore.

He tries again to shake off the hallucinations, but the rumbling keeps going and it’s sounding more like screams now. The blood keeps pouring from the fridge and he’s starting to feel an ache in his scars, like something is pressing on them.

Jack is not sure how much time passes, he just sits there naked, body greasy with sickly sweet blood. He looks at the clock on the wall, but it keeps changing, making it hard to keep track of time. When it suddenly shows five hands as opposed to the normal two, he throws up. It’s mostly water, so now he knows for sure he didn’t eat anything all day. Probably didn’t take his meds either then.

Feeling himself slipping, black edges in his vision, he tries to gentle himself on the floor, away from the puddle. He hopes he can stay awake, keep from fainting, if he just lies down.

He doesn’t realise he’s passed out, that he’s lying on the kitchen floor crying, until the cat stands there next to him, licking at the tears on his face. He's not sure it's because she cares for him, because she doesn’t seem to care for anything, but he thinks maybe she's trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Jack would like to figure out what the hell is going on too. He moves to push her away, to not have her standing in the puddle of blood, when he realises it’s gone. His body is hurting like crazy, like he spent the whole night on the floor, but he knows it could just have been minutes.

He’s still not sure what time it is, too scared of what he’ll see if he looks at the clock, but he gets up and staggers towards the cabinet where he keeps his meds.

He has a routine. A plan to stick to.

Up at 6 am, feed the cat, go for a run. Take meds. Have breakfast, tend to the garden, have lunch. Nap, feed the cat, have dinner, watch tv. Take meds, go to bed. And then repeat.

**Author's Note:**

> I love Jack Morrison a lot, and I really enjoyed writing this piece.  
> Please leave a comment <3


End file.
